


🧤

by pentagonbuddy



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Fingering, Canon Compliant Metodey Height, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Light BDSM, M/M, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Trans Linhardt von Hevring, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:34:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27940850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentagonbuddy/pseuds/pentagonbuddy
Summary: “What do you think? Got any ideas?” He took Linhardt’s hand and pressed a kiss to its knuckles, which were a gorgeous bone-white contrast to his leather gloves. “Fun theories, hm?”Linhardt slipped his hand away only to slide it around Metodey’s waist and pull their hips flush together. “Yes, that you’re a selfish hedonist—haven’t even asked how I’ve been—”“Stressed. Bet I could help.”“—and you’re a pervert,” he added, tracing the upper edge of Metodey’s belt.—Upon his return from a campaign in Faerghus, Metodey visits his most favorite general of the Imperial army for some much-needed relaxation, nearly cracking his skull in the process.
Relationships: Linhardt von Hevring/Metodey
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	🧤

**Author's Note:**

> [This fic comes with art!](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1A8RtLH583Gs8d67iETZ52s_XBfiS_1t1/view?usp=sharing)
> 
> Linhardt has the unfortunately generic "general in the Imperial Army" line for his timeskip activities on Crimson Flower, which got me thinking about how that must have been an awful time compared to the Linhardt of other routes who indulges in laziness for several years before running away.
> 
> Naturally, this resulted in anal fingering. How else would I possibly explore this?

Metodey’s hair was still damp as he approached the officers’ lodgings, a three-story chateau that was a gracious donation from a Kingdom noble. Well, perhaps donation wasn’t quite the right word. Either way it was the property of the Emperor’s crimson army now, as all of Faerghus would be—eventually, if they could make any progress in this snow-blighted wasteland that lasted more than a few months. Right now it was summer, though, and so they were spared the malicious ice for the most part, but he was fresh enough out of a bath that even a gentle breeze made him shiver.

He fetched a comb from his pocket and ran it through his hair, grinning when he checked the comb’s teeth and didn’t find any blood. It’d been quite the thorough scrub—with soap and everything, he’d even got the crust under his fingernails—but a tidbit of anxiety fluttered in his chest at the thought he’d missed something, or maybe it was excitement from looking up to the window of Linhardt’s bedroom.

Definitely excitement. Another pang of it ran through him as he searched for a foothold in the stone wall underneath; once he found one he stuck the toe of his boot in and started climbing. Whoever built the place had done a fine job, solid work, but time had worn away little gaps here and there in the masonry, and while the window sills were narrow, he was able to rest on one for a moment once he’d made it up the first story.

Maybe a little more than excitement. The feeling went right between his legs as he climbed up the second story, with thoughts of Linhardt’s delicate skin under his gloves instead of this rough stone that he groped at. In some ways it was a distraction, but that he almost slipped at one point just enhanced the mood, really.

By the time he reached the third story sweat dotted his brow, threatening to undo all his tidying up. Maybe going through the door would’ve been smarter, but where was the fun in that?

Metodey nudged his way onto the window sill and peeked inside. Linhardt was at his desk right by the window, conveniently enough, framed in a square of light that gilded his shoulders and brought out the silken sheen of his hair. That he was asleep wasn’t very convenient, but a few taps on the window should wake him up.

“Hey,” Metodey said when they didn’t. He slapped the glass and said it again, louder—followed by a curse when his footing betrayed him.

He clung to a decorative trim that bordered the window, fingers scrabbling for purchase while his heart leapt up his throat. Three stories wouldn’t kill him unless he landed funny, right? Might break some bones or snap his neck if he was unlucky—nothing Linhardt couldn’t take care of, though if he cracked his skull that’d be pretty messy, wouldn’t it? And after all he’d done to get the blood _out_ of his hair…

“Linhardt!” He couldn’t knock with his hands now and moving his feet was a gamble. “Wake up, dammit!”

It wasn’t Linhardt’s window that creaked open, but the one next to it. A purple-haired woman with wide doe eyes covered her mouth at the sight of him. She didn’t say anything, didn’t even offer to help—not that he needed it—just stared and made a little creak of her own, an _e_ sound stretched to its limit.

“Mind your own business,” he said.

It heated his cheeks and burned the tips of his ears to be caught like some amateur. Whatever. All he had to do was climb back down, go through a boring door, maybe pick a lock if Linhardt wasn’t up by then. Easy. It didn’t take long to find a previous foothold, so he grit his teeth, let go of the trim to adjust his position and—

Her sound blew into a proper shriek as the sky whirled into view.

Oh, this would crack his skull for sure. Linhardt was going to hate it.

The scream and the sky and his lurching stomach all smeared together, smothered by a light that dropped him with a solid _thud_ , skull intact. A shock still reverberated up his spine and left his ass sore, but as he went to rub it he realized he was on wood, not stone. It was difficult to make sense of until the light faded and his eyes landed on a pair of dark slippers.

Though he wanted to wave up at Linhardt, his limbs felt like cooked noodles. The best he could manage for now was a smile.

Linhardt frowned at him.

Giddiness bubbled up out of him as laughter, knocked that numb feeling loose, compelled him to roll around with it until Linhardt nudged him with one slipper.

“That was dangerous, you know,” Linhardt said, then muttered, “of course you know.”

Now his limbs felt solid enough for him to sit up. “It worked out.”

“I could’ve sent you into a wall, or worse, Bernadetta’s room—”

“But you didn’t, so it’s fine.”

Linhardt used his thumb to wipe sleep-sand from his eyes. There was this red indent in his cheek from something he’d slept on. “Don’t scare me like that.”

Metodey felt a little bad about interrupting a nap, but he would’ve done that no matter how he came in. His legs were wobbly as he stood so he used Linhardt’s desk for support, though he almost knocked over a stack of coins in the process. Some were already scattered across a map of Faerghus.

No, not scattered. Placed. Tokens in a game that Linhardt hated but played anyway. There was an ink-stained bit of copper near an open journal full of dark scrawls that Metodey decided not to read. Instead, he took the coin and held it up next to Linhardt’s face.

Linhardt touched the matching indent on his cheek. “...I’m glad you made it here in one piece.” 

Metodey leaned against the desk, flipped the coin, caught it mid-air. Got a good rhythm going, flipping and catching and flipping again. “Ha, those frostbitten bastards didn’t stand a chance.”

“Their odds were so bad we had to retreat.”

“Exactly”—the coin hit the floor—“wait, wait. We didn’t _retreat_.” Once he’d picked it up, he blew his bangs out of his face with a huff. “General Aegir said our strength was needed elsewhere.”

“So that’s how he phrased it...Diplomatic as ever.” Linhardt covered his whole forehead and eyes with his hand, as if to ward off a headache. “I’m just glad he listened. He was so stubborn at first, kept saying you could hold out until reinforcements—”

“We could’ve.” Metodey pocketed the coin.

Linhardt peeked through the cracks of his fingers, then went to the desk with a sigh. “Maybe,” he said, leaning closer. “But I didn’t think it was worth the risk.”

As much as he wanted to close the gap between them, Metodey swallowed down the desire and didn’t cling when Linhardt hugged him. It was light—more like a ghost than a lover’s caress—until Linhardt buried his face into the side of Metodey’s neck and inhaled.

Oh, this was it—every muscle in his neck tensed as he waited, half-expecting to be shoved away with complaints about the smell, but no, Linhardt just nuzzled him, and that one touch brought the limp noodle feeling back.

There was a lot to miss about the front lines. Every moment was brighter, laced with a kind of thrill he only got from nearly cracking his skull. Death and rot weren’t pleasant smells, he agreed with Linhardt there, but campfire smoke and all the other things that were lovely when they burned...Hell, he could even have warmth like this, though they were brusque, pragmatic affairs. Always rushed, and not many people stuck around once they had what they came for. Well, he didn’t mind. Nothing personal.

Linhardt rested his head on Metodey’s shoulder, slumping into him with enough dead weight that he stumbled.

“You know,” Metodey breathed into the green hair near his mouth, “I kept my hands to myself this time. Didn’t even jack off.”

Linhardt’s laugh reverberated in his own chest. “Why?”

“Saving it for you.”

“I never asked.”

“But don’t you want it?”

Linhardt put some space between them with his fingertips against Metodey’s chest. “Depends on what it is.”

“What do you think? Got any ideas?” He took Linhardt’s hand and pressed a kiss to its knuckles, which were a gorgeous bone-white contrast to his leather gloves. “Fun theories, hm?”

Linhardt slipped his hand away only to slide it around Metodey’s waist and pull their hips flush together. “Yes, that you’re a selfish hedonist—haven’t even asked how I’ve been—”

“Stressed. Bet I could help.”

“—and you’re a pervert,” he added, tracing the upper edge of Metodey’s belt.

Metodey closed his eyes to savor the warm breath at his neck. “So are you, touching me like this.”

“My perversion has nothing to do with yours.” Linhardt’s hands were dangerously close to some good places. His mouth, too. “Hm, or perhaps there’s _some_ correlation...”

Metodey went in for a kiss that was cold and hard and when he opened his eyes, Linhardt had the ink-stained coin in front of his lips. He—when had he stolen it back? It made a small _clink_ as he put it with the other coins on his desk. Metodey reached for him; he ducked out of the way and went to the door instead.

Was Linhardt going to kick him out after all that? Nonsense, he told himself, though his excitement threatened to flip to anxiety at the mere suggestion.

“I’ll go tell Bernadetta that everything’s fine. And that now might be a good time for a walk.” His nonsense worry was quelled when Linhardt tucked some loose hair behind his own ear and smiled. “We don’t know how long this nice weather will last.”

♢♢♢

Metodey’s hair was dry by now, but sweat dotted his forehead again as he squirmed on a nest of pillows Linhardt had made to support his back. It was a mite too comfortable in Metodey’s opinion. His hands were tied behind him with a clumsily-knotted sash, while a curtain cord was looped under his knee and secured behind his neck, which pulled one leg up towards his chest. Linhardt still wasn’t very good at the actual knots, but the cord thing was clever. It kept his legs spread with minimal effort on Linhardt’s part, which let him focus on sliding gloved fingers in and out of Metodey.

Two of them, oil-slick, slow but persistent. Delicious torture. The only kind Linhardt was willing to inflict as he lied next to him, mumbling into his ear about the relationship between the Crest of Charon and the weather. The weather! At a time like this…

“...Difficult without any subjects, though. Well, none that aren’t trying to kill us. At most I have circumstantial evidence and hearsay, it’s been rather vexing…”

“Can’t you go a little faster? Or—harder. Go harder.”

“Mm, don’t be in such a rush.” Linhardt pressed his fingers deeper only to keep them still. “We’ve barely started.”

“ _More_ fingers, then,” Metodey said, rolling his hips against them.

“Greedy…”

Though he whined, it didn’t get Linhardt to start moving again. “The hell are you waiting for?”

“My wrist needs a break.”

“Tch, already? _Barely started_.”

Linhardt’s whisper tickled his ear. “Yes, and tied up like this, you’ll just have to be patient.”

As if he couldn’t slip out of this shoddy knotwork! In fact, if he wanted to he could turn the tables on Linhardt and show him how it was done, but...then Linhardt couldn’t touch him like this, couldn’t hold him or idly caress his thigh while they waited. Time with this frustrating man had an odd flow to it, sluggish and finely-grained like an hourglass on its side, yet once he started thrusting again, Metodey’s body responded as if they’d never stopped. Pleasure spiked through him from this spot Linhardt rubbed that always curled his toes.

“Should’ve grabbed a mirror...You’re making quite the face right now,” Linhardt said. “Must feel good.”

Nonsense threatened to spill from his lips, so he nodded instead.

“I wonder why? I’ve never noticed this”—he pressed harder against the spot—“in myself. Seems to be an anatomical difference, or maybe some predisposition...What’s it like?”

“ _Good_.”

“Good how? Like...oh, a more traditional handjob? Or more abstract? Fiery passions and the like.” While he spoke, all the poking and prodding turned into a steady massage.

“U-uh, yes?”

“That doesn’t tell me anything.”

Another euphoric spike went through Metodey as he imagined those long, slender fingers reaching further, splitting him open as his lover dismantled him piece by piece, like he was just the most fascinating thing in the world. That felt best of all—coming apart under the scrutiny—but he knew Linhardt wouldn’t want to hear it like that.

The next thing that came to mind was beetles. Such hard shells but if you pressed hard enough they’d pop just like anything else, not that Linhardt would want to hear about this, either. Boiled eggs, then, and pressing your thumb into one like—he couldn’t say like an eye socket—but the moment when you pressed your thumb in to fracture the shell, knowing there was something soft and delicious under there to sink your teeth into. That was what Linhardt’s touch did to him, and were it not for the ties holding him together Metodey was certain he’d have popped by now. There was already this maddening pressure between his thighs.

“It’s like, like I gotta pee—”

“That’s disgusting.”

“You asked!”

Linhardt’s fingers stilled. “You’re not going to, are you?”

“I—c’mon, hurry, I can’t—”

He slid them out, and no matter how gentle he was it left behind a painful emptiness. 

“Fucking hell, just—” The rest dissolved into a frustrated snarl as Linhardt sat back.

Whatever. He knew how to take care of himself, anyway, and if Linhardt wasn’t going to finish the job then he would.

At least Linhardt watched him squirm, and even if he wasn’t doing anything erotic with those gloves right now, they were still _Metodey’s_. They made everything sexier. Why, he was certain he’d get a little thrill even if he saw Linhardt pick his nose with them.

His cock twitched at the thought. Not the—not the nose thing, but catching Linhardt in the midst of something so impolite. He liked to think about Linhardt touching himself with those gloves, would touch himself with them and fantasize, and alright, maybe he’d done a little bit of that while he was away, but he’d been honest about the no-jacking-off thing. Sort of.

He could jack off to his heart’s content once he was out of these amateur bindings.

...Any minute now.

It’s just that he was all limp noodle again, head lolled against a pillow, legs spread only because of the cord around one. The cord’s bite at his neck and under his knee kept him exposed, vulnerable, open. It’d be so easy for Linhardt to put an end to his exquisite suffering if he felt so inclined. 

He didn’t, of course. Just drizzled more oil into his palm, held his glove up, turned it over to show off how it glistened. “Should I untie you?”

“I can do it.” But if he did, he might miss out on something fun with that oil. “Why’d you stop? Look, I’m not going to pee.”

“Payback for waking me up just to be gross.” Enough time had passed that a chill zipped through him when Linhardt held a finger to his ass. “You’re a real menace.”

A menace! The compliment dulled some of his irritation.

Linhardt teased him about all sorts of things while pressing the finger inside—his lack of manners, his foul language, how desperate he looked with his cock dripping like this. They’d put one of Linhardt’s robes down to spare the sheets and he made sure to point out the damp spots on it. This was all well and good—much better than the weather—but the real tease was how Linhardt stopped at two fingers again. Ugh, and so _gentle_ , like, like touching gold foil…it made his chest hurt. 

The fingers were quite the distraction as he struggled against his bindings, but it really was time for them to go. He couldn’t stand it, not the ache in his chest or any more of this teasing.

“Having some trouble?” Linhardt asked, his tone playfully merciless.

Metodey shook his head. He needed to focus, and while closing his eyes helped, it accentuated the subtle shifts of Linhardt’s fingers. If he angled his leg a certain way it was simple enough to duck his head under the curtain cord, though his knee stung once he finally unbent it. Right as he snuck out of one loop around his wrists Linhardt resumed thrusting, a devious tactic that almost stopped him, but he kept shifting and twisting and squirming until— 

He slid his hand behind Linhardt’s neck, pulled him closer so he could properly gloat, only to be ambushed by a kiss.

“Now what?” Linhardt asked.

“I…” Metodey cleared his throat, hoping to rid himself of this pathetic note that clung to his voice. It was one kiss, nothing to get worked up over. He touched the glove on Linhardt’s free hand, right at the edge. “I’ll show you how it’s done.”

It was too snug when he tried to take it off, so he pinched the tip of Linhardt’s index finger between his teeth and tugged, which should’ve been sexy, but what ended up happening was that Linhardt slipped his fingers out and peeled it off himself. Metodey grumbled about how he almost had it as he put the glove on.

Linhardt massaged his wrist again while Metodey dumped oil into his own palm. Brief as it was, the absence of something in him exacerbated that awful feeling in his chest. Going way too fast hurt in unfun ways, but a _little_ too fast spread a pleasant burn from where his own fingers thrust, and his ever-flexible body adjusted soon enough. It was hard to get a good angle with his leg untied though, since he had to hold himself open now.

Once the novelty of an audience wore off, he lowered his leg with a huff. “Don’t just sit there.”

“I’m taking notes on your superb technique.” Linhardt tapped his forehead with his bare hand. “Mental ones.”

“At least hold my leg or, or—I don’t know, _something_.”

Linhardt crawled between his legs, leaned down enough to lift Metodey’s leg over his shoulder, held himself up with one hand while his gloved one traveled up Metodey’s torso until it reached his nipple—the slightest brush arched his back into it.

“How’s this?” Linhardt asked, even though he damn well knew the answer.

No one knew his body quite like himself, but with two hands there was only so much he could do. Linhardt’s assistance freed up the one he’d had on his leg; now he used it to play with his other nipple. While they shared the same gloves it wasn’t the same touch at all, with Linhardt rubbing lazy circles while he pinched and pulled. Paired with his own fingers Metodey found himself edging closer to release, but…

Something was still missing. 

A curtain of silken hair tickled him as Linhardt drew closer. “Well?”

Thinking was a great way to sour any mood. Metodey tried to do it as little as possible. Yet lying here under Linhardt, pierced through by his gaze even if it was his own fingers in himself, he thought of all the times he’d tried to capture this sensation on his own. Three—no, four—hands wouldn’t do it and he couldn’t think of anyone else who watched him quite like Linhardt, nevermind who he’d let see him like this in the first place. Joan certainly wouldn’t bite, and while General Hrym might, he’d go right for the jugular. None of this brushing sweaty bangs from his forehead and kissing it when he didn’t respond.

“I, uh…” Metodey swallowed. “I lied earlier. A little.”

“Oh, I figured.”

He huffed at the interruption. “H-hey, I’m not done—”

“I know, I know, working on—”

He let go of his nipple and covered Linhardt’s mouth. “I tried this with myself—it’s not jacking off, honest, and a-anyway, wasn’t good without you. Your fingers, they’re—they’re real long.” He lowered his hand so that he could press its palm into his own face. Linhardt wasn’t even touching him at the moment and here he was babbling like a fool. “So get to it.”

“You really think you’re in a position to boss me around?” Linhardt used the ankle over his shoulder to spread Metodey’s legs further apart. “I outrank you, y’know.”

The stretch prompted this odd combination of a grumble and a gasp. Not fair. Not this or the rank. He didn’t understand why the Emperor had promoted someone like Linhardt, whose soft-bellied nature and cynical outlook made him do things like withdraw at the first sign of trouble...though Metodey could respect that last bit. It was what allowed him to be here, after all, and while bloodshed and merriment were nice, something about the current atmosphere stripped him in a similar way, down to little more than beastly indulgence.

Sloppy kisses—ones worth getting worked up over—along with the return of Linhardt’s fingers stripped away another layer. Metodey’s body was eager to fit them in next to his own. Four...There was another agonizing period where Linhardt grabbed his wrist and held it in place, forcing him to wait, but let go soon enough and allowed him to thrust, even joined in after a little while.

Ah, how sublime to have the reason fucked out of him!

They were back to fondling his nipples, together, while rubbing that one spot in him with their shared gloves, together, so close they breathed the same air, together. Sure, someone else could match the physicality of this, fill in the same touches, but...it wouldn’t be the same, would it? 

The thought was scattered by a list of obscenities, both in his head and out his mouth, as Linhardt abandoned his nipple in favor of _finally_ stroking his cock.

This smoothed the remaining wrinkles in his mind until he was a worm in the other man’s palm, writhing. Couldn’t even fondle himself now, didn’t have the coordination for it; his whole body tensed and trembled and did whatever the hell it wanted as his self-control fractured. He pawed at Linhardt, the pillows, his own thigh, until he popped and the pleasure trapped in his hips spilled over into the rest of his body, his back arched and breath hitched while it escaped.

Once it was all out he collapsed against the pillows, chest heaving.

Linhardt mumbled something to him that he couldn’t parse. At most he caught the punchline to a joke about saghert and cream, but it was hard to laugh when he was so breathless and had missed the setup. That was one of Linhardt’s favorites, wasn’t it? It had probably been a good joke, so he at least mustered a chuckle.

His own fingers were still in, Metodey knew that much, was reminded of it with each little aftershock of delight. Limp noodles, cracked eggs, saghert and cream...none of them captured his current feelings. He didn’t know how long it was until he started feeling like a person again, instead of this blob melted into the pillows.

After he took his fingers out—reluctantly—it was...fine, since a different sort of pleasure filled the emptiness. His earlier thought trickled back in as well, now that he was blessed with the doubled-edged insight that often came at times like these.

There was more than sex to sex with Linhardt.

It sounded ridiculous when phrased like that, but he didn’t know how else to word it, and anyway, he kept the thought to himself while Linhardt reached over him to wipe the bed’s headboard.

“You’re so messy,” Linhardt said, cupping his cheek afterward.

Metodey nodded, gleeful.

♢♢♢

A pleasant scent lingered in the bedroom even after they cleaned up, and Metodey knew the smell of sweat, at least, would cling to him for a while longer. He was going to need another bath, wasn’t he? Maybe one with Linhardt…

Linhardt was already conked out, facedown in bed like he was the one who’d been fucked. Even though he rolled his eyes at it, Metodey smiled. It was nice to think it’d been fun for him, too, but of course it had—otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered.

Since Linhardt was asleep there wasn’t much for Metodey to do here, and while his head was still clouded by a blissful haze, now his stomach was in dire need of attention. Oh, and some ale while he was at it, though Linhardt stirred when he crept towards the edge of the bed. He didn’t get up—didn’t seem to be awake—but it was enough to stop Metodey mid-reach for his folded pants. His stomach made a compelling argument for why he should grab them anyway, but instead he sat there with his legs crossed, trying to gauge whether or not Linhardt was actually asleep. Not that it mattered either way, since they seemed to be done with the sex, and if Linhardt wanted to talk at him about Crests and the weather or whatever else, then it’d be better over some food. It wasn’t like Linhardt, of all people, would complain if he left early. But then again, he’d gone through so much trouble to make it here—why be in such a rush to leave?

The coherency and number of his thoughts became a problem as he dwelled on this. He couldn’t leave when he was stripped bare, like a bandage had been unwrapped and it was time to inspect the wound.

With his clever stratagems and soothing touch, Linhardt was a healer first and foremost, someone who cleaned up other people’s sloppy tactics or plain old rotten luck. Sure, he occasionally set people on fire, but Metodey wasn’t one of them. Despite this, there was a gash across his heart that ached as he listened to Linhardt’s snores. Even those were soft. (Most parts of him were, save for that deliciously sharp tongue of his.)

Yet for all the thoughts of Linhardt that plagued him, the cure was lying right there.

The pillows muffled Linhardt’s voice. “Are you going to sleep or not?”

Metodey grabbed a fistful of the blankets, flustered by the speed of his traitorous heart. He felt like a fool around this man, an easy mark, caught with his pants down at the worst time— 

Still facedown, Linhardt threw back the covers for him. Seeing its darkness against the white sheets, he noticed Linhardt still had his glove.

The matching one was on his own hand. He didn’t know why, but once he’d crawled under the covers something prompted him to roll the glove off his hand, then Linhardt’s after some mumbled confusion, and he tossed them both aside. Because they were dirty, probably. While the snug leather had been comfortable, it was a lifeless sort of skin-on-skin contact. Touching Linhardt’s pulse-point at his wrist, running his fingertips up the other man’s arm, across his chest, the side of his neck...he was so very warm and alive.

Funny, how easy it was for that to change. If it hadn’t been for Linhardt, he’d still be freezing his ass off in Faerghus—or worse, maybe in that Bernadetta’s wall. Instead, he knew it’d be pleasantly sore after a while and sure, he’d complain, and Linhardt wouldn’t spare so much as a crumb of sympathy; he’d just tell him all the ways he could’ve avoided it, even though right now it was Linhardt who laced their fingers together.

...Linhardt was a sentimental fool who was going to be the death of him. Well, if this was how he had to go, bare hands clasped and tangled up with each other, that was alright. He didn’t mind.


End file.
